To Walk In On The Ocean
by punctuatedbyphilosophy
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John returns to 221B and tries to come to terms with all that greets him there.
1. Chapter 1

_Words have been spoken; things that were bottled_  
_have burst open and to walk in now_  
_would be to walk in_

_on the ocean._

_-At Sea by Simon Armitage_

1.

John never thought a walk home could be so hard. Even after all this time people still gave him pitiful looks and there was muted scorn on everybody else lips. The London rain that fell about him had begun to fill him with a sense of defeat. Placing his foot on the step he'd once loved to return to took a kind of courage he hadn't mustered in a while. Somehow he found the strength to carry on, if not for himself but for his friend.

"_He'd want me to be here."_

The man's fingers outlined the brass numbers, not truly believing he was back after so long. He placed his hand flat against the door's damp, black surface and felt the memories of a life lived here radiating through the paint and wood from inside.

John had returned because today was a good day, a day of hope where he allowed himself to believe the impossible: that his friend wasn't dead. He thought his flatmate might have returned, he didn't know why, instinct he supposed, and walking up those well worn stairs he started to believe it.

"_He's alive." _

He heard this simple line, over and over, his head full of his swirling but painful belief. He felt that sickening sensation of anticipation, not dissimilar to the feelings of dread that had plagued his mind every sleepless night since that day. It seemed no matter what John Watson did he could not win against the scars he held. His flat's door stood before him and, like everything else in this building it was screaming at him one word. One name. Looking down to the hallway he remembered the laughter the two of them had shared and how John had forgotten everything that haunted him. That moment when he'd realised this strange, wonderful man had saved him. He dragged in a deep, coarse breath in an attempt to prepare himself for whatever might lie beyond the door but his chest was tight with a strange, but not unfamiliar mixture of fear and thrill so he found he could only inhale quick gasps of stagnant air. John's hand clung to the handle as he tried to suppress the wondrous thoughts clouding his reason and tugging at his already worn out temples. As much as he tried to rationalise one powerful idea seeped into the front of his mind and took root there and grew.

"_He might be in there now, lying on the sofa, his hands pressed together, placed under his chin, thinking and deducing like he never left. He'll greet me with a grin or with a look of remorse, because he did leave me and he's sorry but he's not dead, he is so completely alive and..."_

John thrust the door open with a thud and saw an empty room. The life appeared to drain from his body. Every shimmer his hope had left on his face vanished. Cell by cell, from the hollow chambers of his heart outwards he began to crumple. Grief bled from his body. His best friend was not here.

Understanding, once again, that his friend was gone John found he could not stand upright any more. He slumped down to the floor, his shoulder and head dragging against the wall to his right.

"_He isn't here."_

Somewhere in the darkest corner of his mind he dragged a notion that he had admitted to people, but had never quite believed. A thought that haunted the bad days, the hopeless days.

"_He's really gone."_

He pulled his knees to his chin and scrunched his eyes shut. This solider had been so strong but now he was done.

Curled up on the floor, still and unmoving, John stayed where he had fallen until the sun that was out before had disappeared and the street lights had come on. Not entirely sure what the hell he was going to do now, John surveyed his surroundings, trying desperately to find a clue he may have missed to where his companion might be. He looked up at the wall he leaned on and saw the spray painted face with the bullet holes for eyes and was reminded once again of what was lost. The souvenirs of their lives together were still here but the biggest of them all, the one he wanted to keep forever was not. Sat alone in a room full of memories he felt a desperate need to give up, to remain where he was until it was all over.

Eventually, from somewhere within him, he found the will to stand and once he was on his tired feet he managed to tread slowly about the room. Each object held some anecdote that caused fire to jolt through his chest. Every inch of the room besieged him.

John had tried to return to normality, to life before Sherlock Holmes, and found he couldn't stand it. They'd been so happy here with his days filled with mystery and Sherlock's filled with someone new to impress. A friend. Soon he felt that expected and all too familiar sensation of tears moving down his cheeks. He could not believe he had tears left for that man. He had shed so many, alone, at night, in the hours where he couldn't shake the image of blood, trickling down past crystal blue eyes, from his own fractured mind.

John was a tough man; he had not cried in front of people and after a week played the part of a man trying to regain a sense of order. A stranger might have been fooled into thinking they were not talking to a broken man but all smiles he gave were fake and his eyes, if you really looked, showed nothing but bared grief. It reminded those who knew him back then of how he acted when he'd returned from conflict. What they could never understand, however, was that the war in this man's head was far greater than that experienced as an army doctor. A war John fought alone and one which he felt he was slowly starting to lose.

In his mind's absence John's body had gravitated towards the other man's chair. He imagined, very clearly, the figure that once sat there, long and slender in a tight shirt, or with upturned collars, or simply in a sheet from his bed. John saw, quite abruptly, his friend's animated body agitated, with feet tapping, waiting for a case. He witnessed him mocking John's own inferior, "simple" mind, perceived him drinking sugary coffee from dainty cups, caught a glimpse of him hollering, shooting, deducing and best, yet at the same time worst of all, smiling. Sherlock grinning at John with his eyes still shiny and so very alive. All these mirages highlighted to him the moments he had missed so much this past year and the things he'd taken for granted at the time but would now never see again. He held back the growing sobs he'd locked away and turned instead, eyes closed, towards his memories trying to remember every inch of that upturned mouth. He found he hardly could.

"_How fragile memories are. No matter how much you care for somebody they will always and inevitably be forgotten."_

A few hours had passed now, since John had first arrived. Time felt so slow to him, even though he did very little with it. He had no idea how long he had been stood staring at nothing. His body was stiff, his soles were sore and he was about to sit down and rest when he caught sight of a thing that was quite insignificant but that stirred something within him. His hand ran along the top of dull leather, turned it upward to face him and regarded it with a smile. Dust. He recalled his friend once saying that dust was eloquent. He was right of course. The dust on John's finger tips did tell stories and it told the saddest tale he knew of a great man who left too soon.

He took his seat opposite where he had imagined his friend and just seeing it empty hurt him. Sighing deeply he closed his eyes shut, secretly hoping that when he opened them his flatmate would be sat in his own chair. John always wished he'd reappear when he looked upon the real world again after the darkness behind his eyes. This was why, as he'd told his psychiatrist, mornings were the worst.

"It's just in my dreams," he would tell her, "he is so alive, vivid and real that every morning it's... it's him... dying. All over again."

John was only revived from his sleep when Mrs. Hudson found him, his hands clenching the chair arms in unbearable agony. She fretted for him to leave at once, said she'd been told to keep watch and not let him return, but he asked if he could leave a note, just in case he'd been right and his friend was alive and returning here, on the anniversary of the eve of his death. Mrs. Hudson looked at John through welling eyes as he scribbled a letter and slipped the folded note under the skull on the mantelpiece.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

So he'd been here. Sherlock could see the evidence: the new scuff marks on the skirting board, the missing dust from where tough fingers had run and the fresh mud trodden into the carpet in the unique way his friend's feet did. Yes, he could deduce John had been there easily, but there was something more in the room that he could not quite put his finger on. This irritated him. It appeared he could just _feel_that John had been there. Absurd. He didn't believe in sentiment and feeling anything, yet he could not shake his uneasiness at this unspoken presence in the room. His eyes scanned his surroundings and spotted an envelope, assumingly a letter, and concluded that this unobserved clue was the cause of his ill feeling.

Sherlock began to walk swiftly towards it and on seeing it was addressed to him picked it up. He then grimaced against the pain in his leg. Blood had seeped through the makeshift bandages on his thigh to his worn out trousers and was leaving a stain. He couldn't help wishing that John was there to deal with it but in thinking this remembered the sad fact that John must never know that he had returned. John must think he was dead, he must leave no trace. Today was not the day to return.

His mind stopped whirring forward, skipped back and paused upon his previous thought. He was becoming more affected it seemed, thinking of John tending to his wounds. So unlike him, the sociopath with no feelings. He concluded that he was tired and it was biologically sound to think ridiculous things when not well rested. He had to sleep, even though he knew he shouldn't stay in the flat longer than necessary he thought that he was much more likely to make a mistake and give his location away if fatigued. Giving into his need to rest he walked towards his bedroom door.

With the promise of sleep Sherlock forgot all about being invisible and lay supine on his duvet, the letter still held in his hand.

* * *

John had told those who had warned against it that he was returning to apologise to Mrs. Hudson for upsetting her earlier on. Really he was going to take the skull. He'd decided he needed something of Sherlock's to keep, a memento, and also found himself wanting someone to talk to who would always listen but never judge and the skull served both purposes. Best to actually say sorry first then quickly dash upstairs, grab the object without looking at the room and leave. The London traffic was so bad from the pub to the flat, however, that by the time John got to Baker Street he knew Mrs. Hudson would already be in bed. Sighing inwardly he was about to hail another cab and say to hell with the skull when something he'd barely noticed when pulling up to 221B made his insides leap. Through a gap between the two curtains John could see a faint strip of light. Had he not turned it off? He could not remember. He decided to turn detective and go investigate and if there was nothing to see at least he could get that damn skull he suddenly wanted so much.

With a couple of pints of beer coursing through him John stumbled up the stairs. How much easier it was to come here with his senses numbed by alcohol. He headed inside, looked around, saw nothing unusual so went straight for the skull and grinned. It was his. Then, all at once, the smile fell from his face and nausea replaced his fleeting joy at success. Only a few hours ago, under this skull, there'd been a note for Sherlock and now there was not. No one would have taken that note but the recipient, surely?

He reeled and spun about, staggering through the flat and, upon seeing Sherlock's bedroom door slightly ajar clamoured his way towards the room. He was about to crash through when he became immobilised, remembering how bad for him it had been this morning when he wished for too much. Maybe his sorrow was making him just see what he wanted, like the drugs in the fog had. It was impossible for Sherlock to be here.

Not impossible, just highly improbable and improbable things did happen, especially when Sherlock was involved. John did not believe in miracles before meeting Sherlock and he wasn't even sure he did now, but he badly needed one. He needed Sherlock to be behind this door.

John walked through looking straight ahead. His heart was audible and beating fast. He wanted to scream or be sick or something. Daring not look at the bed he stood still fearing he was wrong but he swore he could hear breathing. All these opposing thoughts were running through his head, he had to stop them, he had to know. This was the be all and end all and there was no coming back from it.

John's world was spinning as he looked slowly round and saw that familiar body lying face up in front of him. He couldn't think. John's entire body and dazed mind were shrieking. He felt faint. His mouth was dry. He had to say something to know for sure he was actually here. Out of his mouth crept the word following him everywhere.

"Sherlock?"

The man before him stirred but didn't wake. John still wasn't sure he was awake himself. No this was real, he was certain now. All of his feelings were muted in a desperate need to bring his friend back to his life. The man who had been alone so long was no longer alone. He had to see those eyes alive again.

"Sherlock, please wake up."

And then, so suddenly, John's miracle was realised. Sherlock was awake.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Sherlock could hear a man's voice saying his name. He smiled recognising the voice to be John's. Good, John was home.

Something in a back room of his mind palace was niggling at him, telling him he shouldn't be smiling. Maybe they'd had a fight. He wished he could remember what it was and, furthermore, why his mind was being strangely slow. He wondered if this was what normal people's minds were like. He almost felt sorry for them.

Sherlock shook off the last remnants of sleep as he heard his flat mate beg him to wake up. His eyes fluttered open. The look on John's face that greeted him removed all that was left of his smile. Sherlock searched his internal database for the emotions he could read on John's tired, lined face but there were so many. John's eyes were the worse, full of disbelief and raw, aged pain. What could have possibly caused his friend so much anguish?

"John?"

As he said that name he remembered everything. The fall and its aftermath, and especially that he was meant to come back here unnoticed, for John's sake.

He regarded his friend's face brimming with an sea of hurt. What must it look like to John, an average man, prone to jumping to conclusions, to find Sherlock napping here?

On returning his first move he'd wanted to make was to give John an honest explanation and to not stop speaking until the listener understood why he'd had to lie, but now he'd made it look like it was all a game. He clearly had not mastered the art of dying like he thought he had. Sherlock had never been truly unsuccessful before, but today he was and this was the worst failure of all, the failure of his only friend. There was meant to be more time to explain.

He tentatively sat up in bed and stared into the soldier's eyes as they turned to bitterness.

* * *

"You bastard." John said simply.

John did not understand. Sherlock had smiled at him and now was just sat there like everything was fine. All that sorrow he held bottled up burst out as anger. He himself had suffered so much for this man and Sherlock didn't even seem concerned.

On the days he'd believed Sherlock to be alive he'd gone through this moment in his head, rehearsing what he'd say, but looking at Sherlock's sleepy eyes he realised he'd always imagined Sherlock to walk into 221B like a soldier coming home, full of the same pain as John held. Sherlock, however, looked unfazed. He didn't look moved at all.

John started to think dangerous things. New ideas grew like weeds in his head. Their roots came from the deepest depths of the soil where John had long since buried all his insecurities and faltering belief. He didn't question whether Sherlock was the man he said he was, the genius detective, but he began to wonder if Sherlock had ever cared for him at all. Maybe John was yet another experiment, and maybe Sherlock had got bored of it.

"J-John...I..."

The dam that held back the tide of John's doubt burst. Words flooded out of his mouth before he could stop them, cascading out in brief burst of captured sorrow.

"Don't, Sherlock, just don't. God I've been such a fool. I thought you were dead but apparently that doesn't warrant some sort of but you don't care about anyone, do you? Well, said as much yourself. I should have never expected you to like anyone. Let alone a man like me.

Oh, now I see. Everything you said on the roof, all those tears were lies, weren't they? "Just a trick", huh? You were a very good actor, so well done, you did trick me. Ha, of course, a brilliant, wonderful man like you, it must have taken no effort to fool a simple minded soldier.

I've been such a bloody idiot."

* * *

Sherlock suspected John was somewhat intoxicated. His words had a slurred quality and ran together like his sentences lacked spaces. He knew this was never going to be easy but he'd never thought John would think such destructive thoughts.

Sherlock valued their friendship, which was why he had battled the criminal underworld, to keep it. Every moment of this past year had not been for himself, for fame and glory, not to save his name but for John and everything they'd had at 221B.

"Look John I..."

"Why, Sherlock? Just answer me that. You said I was your friend once, and even if that wasn't true, you at least owe me an explanation. The conclusion, shall we say, to this experiment."

Sherlock kept thinking of appropriate responses, to tell John that he was his friend and that he, the man who never apologised, was sorry, but his head was cloudy. Something was very wrong with him. His leg was torture.

Sherlock did not want to collapse, he wanted to make things right with John, if he fell unconscious John might leave him, so he grabbed onto the bed to try and keep himself upright. His arms were weak however, so less accurate with their placement and on their way to the mattress the back of his fingers had knocked his wound. This shock of pain pushed him over the edge and with a grunt of agony the detective succumbed to his biological response to trauma and passed out.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

John was just about ready to storm out when Sherlock fell. Automatically, he grabbed the other man's slender shoulders as he slumped forward and clumsily laid Sherlock on his back upon the bed.

John was puzzled as Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man to fake a faint when faced with difficult questions. He went into doctor mode and scanned his patient's body for any injuries and, sure enough, he found there was a cut in the trouser on his friend's right leg revealing blood soaked material below it. By the amount of blood seeping through to the black fabric above John figured the cut to be relatively serious.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock." He said to himself.

All his distrust melted away. Bloody hell he'd really buggered things up. Sherlock was hurt, that's why he was asleep and all John could do was selfishly accuse his friend of being callous. He had no idea what Sherlock had been through the past year, what he'd had to do to get by, to work his way back to John.

He stared at the man lying here and felt guilt fall upon him. Frail limbs, darkened eyelids, cheekbones protruding further than before, John had all the evidence he needed that Sherlock cared. He'd put himself through all this suffering to find a way to return back here.

John had thought he'd been running away but Sherlock was always just finding a route home.

John really needed to get a good look at the wound so there was no time for wondering how Sherlock had obtained it. He feared it may be infected so he knew he must act quickly. The bandages had to come off.

"I'm glad no one can see this. People would never stop talking."

He laughed to himself as he proceeded to undo the black trousers his companion was wearing. Pulling them to Sherlock's knees and removing the old makeshift bandage John could see the extent of the wound. It was fresh so thankfully unlikely to be infected, and it wasn't all that deep but it would need stitches to heal well. No, the injury was no so bad, if you were treating a person who wasn't meant to be dead.

John knew he could not take Sherlock to hospital so he guessed he'd have to deal with it himself. He went and got some dressing from the first aid kit he'd acquired to patch the two of them back up from the scrapes they'd found themselves in and re-bandaged the leg to stem the flow of blood. John knew what he had to do. It was a risk but that was what living with Sherlock was. He bent down and spoke near his friend's ear.

"I'll be back in a bit. Don't move." He turned to go but before he did he said softly, "I'm sorry for what I said, Sherlock."

Pathetic attempt, he knew, but he'd make up properly later. John grabbed his jacket, left the building and hailed a taxi, asking the driver to take him to his old G.P's surgery.

* * *

Sherlock drifted in and out of sleep. He'd felt the odd sensation of tugging at his trousers and heard John's apology, but after that nothing. His dreams were full of vivid colours but as usual no specific scenes and when he woke he found the sun was just starting to rise.

As he began to come round the searing pain in his thigh returned and he looked down to see his legs bare minus a crimson line on fresh gauze bandages. John was looking after him, just like in his fanciful wish, and this made Sherlock feel safe, he supposed, an emotion he'd never truly experienced before.

There was movement outside the door, and Sherlock felt relieved as he understood that his friend had not now abandoned him. He heard a clattering of cup on wood as John came to inspect his patient.

"Morning, Sherlock. How's the leg?" he said as he lay down a mug beside his flatmate. He looked sheepish and genuinely concerned.

Sherlock smiled, "Agony."

John grinned back, "Welcome to the world of the living."

Sherlock searched John's face again and found but three emotions. Tiredness, guilt and relief. Good, he could live with these. He coughed, more for effect than out of necessity and said what he felt he ought to.

"I am sorry, John."

"No need, mate. I was being an idiot before. I was tired. Forget it. Every word. Did you, um... read my note?"

Sherlock looked at his hand and saw the off-white paper crumpled through his fingers. He shook his head.

"Don't bother then. Not much point now." John said.

He took the letter from the long fingers that held it and shoved it in his pocket.

"Right, now comes the bad bit. Your cut needs stitches and even though I managed to break into the surgery last night and steal everything that I need we only deal with minor cuts, ones that do not require anaesthetic. Therefore there was no anaesthetic to steal. So this going to hurt a fair bit."

Sherlock nodded, "Fine, I'll grin and bear it. Just make it neat, John."

John shook his head with a smile. "I'll try my best. I found some stronger pain medication for you to take first and, of course, made some tea."

Sherlock took the pills from John's hand and swallowed them dry. He sipped at his brew and, much to his annoyance, felt better. Tea held no real medicinal qualities so it should have no effect on him but the comfort it brought was undeniable and Sherlock was definitely still grateful for it.

"You're better than most of my usual patients. I'll go get the kit then. Make yourself as...er...comfortable as you can."

John uneasily glanced down at Sherlock's bare legs. He was a doctor so he'd seen plenty of legs and far more intimate things in his time, but with them belonging to Sherlock it was different. It shouldn't have been, but it was and John couldn't help wondering why. He scuttled from the room before he made an arse of himself leaving Sherlock smirking into his teacup at his friend's discomfort.

Sherlock grunted through the painful tugging on his leg. He first distracted himself from it by walking through his mind palace and remembering things that were currently useless. For instance he tried to recall all the poisonous berries he'd ever encountered. Their colour, size, where they could be found, what case they'd been in, how they caused agonising death, but this path only led him to be reminded of his own agony, so he stopped trying to distract himself and settled, instead, for watching John work.

With faint surprise, Sherlock noticed how delicate and nimble the doctor's tough fingers were as they carefully tied off each suture. John was so focused on the task in hand that he didn't notice Sherlock's silver gaze upon him, observing, so very closely, his friend.

When done the weight on the bed shifted as John moved to sit opposite him, legs out in front, parallel to his own. Silence. Sherlock knew John's head must be full of questions, the hardest to ask and to answer being "Why?", but John didn't say anything. Sherlock would answer them, eventually, John would and must know the truth but for now he wanted to be selfish and bask in the simple pleasure of being home.

* * *

John had so much he wanted to say. He was sick of bottling up everything; he felt he might burst from all that he felt. He wanted to tell Sherlock how lost he'd been without him, how the world carried on whilst John could not, how visiting that grave drove the life clean out of him, but he didn't have the skills needed to formulate ideas like that and express them well, so he just let the quiet continue to fill the room.

He could feel Sherlock's eyes upon him, deducing him and, even though he knew he could never begin to imagine how that great brain worked he couldn't help but wonder what those clear pools saw. Who was he to Sherlock? He was his friend, he'd called him such, but what that meant exactly John didn't know. If he could just have an insight, a snippet, of what this man thought then maybe, just maybe, this soldier could open up and tell him how he felt. Right now though he couldn't, it didn't feel right. These were the things they never spoke of.

He was tired of sitting here, staring at his knees, so he dared to look up and was met by those sharp blue irises. They sent him back to the time that was so branded upon his memory he could almost feel the burns it left.

His body throbbing with terror he had kneeled, slumped on the pavement beside those same eyes, believing they and the person who owned them were gone forever. He remembered the feeling that overwhelmed him then of wanting to reach out and hold that faltering body, to scream at him to be alive, he wanted to clutch that stupid, marvellous man in his arms, but it was all too late and the crowd were pulling him back, their grappling hands forcing him away from his friend. He couldn't even touch him and say goodbye.

This was how they had communicated, with hands. Those elegant fingers would interlace with his own and tug him away on a chase, they would rest on his shoulder, briefly, for forgiveness, and they would clutch at his face, dragging him close to look his companion in the eye. This least intimate point of contact, their vain attempts to show that they meant something to each other, these safe, dextrous limbs reaching across the void between these two men whispering, softly "I care."

Yet now, looking at Sherlock sat across from him, he thought he might have imagined it all. Maybe Sherlock just saw those hands as useful implements in getting his own way, used for getting John to run faster and for grabbing his attention. John wasn't sure. This was why John had written the letter, as inarticulate as it was, because scratching out those words felt like he was finally using those hands to say all he wanted to. He needed to know where the two of them stood.

Now, though, with time to reason he'd taken back the note. He was terrified Sherlock would laugh at him, mock his attempts at being sentimental and Sherlock's cutting remarks had a way of locating John's greatest insecurities and ridiculing them. His fear of losing what they had, the tranquillity they found themselves in just now, facade or not, gripped him and made him a coward. All that he wanted to say was poured back into the bottle it had spilled from and was corked tightly shut.

The room had filled with an agonising silence and, without breaking it with his words, John left. Yet before exiting he stopped beside the figure on the bed and gingerly slipped his hand into his friend's, palm grazing palm, and squeezed it tenderly. This hand saying some of what he never could.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

Sherlock never let anyone keep secrets from him so when John had taken that letter from his hand he'd only made Sherlock all the more curious as to what it said. Whatever hateful things he was sure were written there he would certainly discover. Even though he did not like forcing John to walk out, as he had just done by not acknowledging his presence, it was necessary for his plan that John should leave the room. Yes, of course Sherlock had a plan.

He wasn't sure how to take John's parting gesture, the little holding of his hand, it didn't fit in with either of the two sides of John's character Sherlock had witnessed today. It was odd and quite beautifully strange. He chose to ignore it for now, stored it away with those other moments he kept that weren't really helpful but that he didn't want to lose.

After a few minutes of contemplation Sherlock silently followed his friend just as he had always intended to do. He knew how to walk without being heard and even his new injury had not affected his stealth. The silhouette of John was stood by the window with his back to him. Perfect. A sly smile crept across the detectives face. _Oh, John, you never see it coming_. Sherlock crept until he was exactly an arms length from John, until he knew he would be able to snatch the white paper from his friend's trouser pocket and still be far enough away to be able to dodge any attack. It was almost unfair, really. Almost.

* * *

John had put in a valiant effort; he'd reacted quickly, but with his mind wandering through other things he had not been quite quick enough. John's hand had only managed to graze Sherlock's wrist as the taller man spritely leapt away from his grasp. Consequently the letter was now in his flatmate's possession.

"Give it back, Sherlock." John said, warningly, but knowing it to be futile.

Sherlock grinned.

"Come and get it."

As he spoke he flicked his arm elegantly above his head, holding the letter well out of John's reach, telling him with a flash in his eye that John had, yet again, been easily outsmarted and that Sherlock had won. John didn't even try to hide his disappointment. So, he was choosing to mock him then? John was suddenly much too old and weary for games.

* * *

The detective watched as John turned his back on the room again and felt he may have upset him. Maybe not upset, annoyed and worn him down to the point of resentment and acceptance, perhaps, which was Sherlock all over.

"Look, John, however you've insulted me in this letter, I won't hold it against you. If you'd like to take it back or even if you wouldn't, that's fine but I have to know everything,"

He unfurled the white paper.

"I'm actually quite intrigued as to what you've said about me. You always use such colourful epithets that I -"

Sherlock ceased to speak as he saw that the letter he held did not contain what he thought it would. Using John's reaction to seeing him alive as a guide to what must be going on in his mind he'd expected a page of angry, sprawling insults. Sherlock was, well, quite used to them, but what he was not used to was what he read in the fragile lines written by his lonely friend.

_Sherlock,_

_I haven't written that in a while. I've missed writing about us and our cases; my life is nothing without them. The truth is my life is nothing without __you__. You might have been a dick a lot of the time but you are my friend, my greatest friend, and I want you to come back._

_I don't know why you had to go but I understand that it wasn't your fault. I know you and your heart you claim not to own so your reason must be a good one. Sherlock, you may have told me it was because you're a fake but I know that it wasn't. I may not be as brilliant as you, so it may not count, but nothing on this earth could convince me that you are a fraud._

_I'm stood here, writing this in our living room, looking like a git because I thought you might come back today and I was hoping you would be waiting for me here. I thought enough time had passed and I missed you, a lot. You can solve any problem, even your own death and I understand I have to be patient and wait for you to do whatever it is your doing but I don't know how much longer I can stay frozen in time like this. __The thing is, mate, it's very hard here without you, to keep telling myself you're not dead. _

_So if you read this letter, come and find me, we can start again, I promise. Even if we have to lie low and not be detectives for a while, that's fine, I can do without racing through the streets because all I need is you back. ____I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes, always have done, and I know you're alive._

_One of the last things you said to me was that you were sorry, and I can't bear to think that you're out there somewhere hoping I don't hate you. I wrote this letter to tell you that I forgive you. I am still waiting for you to come home and will be till you do._

_Your ever faithful friend,_

_John Watson_

"Just please don't say anything." John whispered, loud enough for the other man to hear.

Sherlock took a step towards him and paused, unsure of where to go from there. He found it strange but he could not process the letter. He had assumed he'd face anger, resentment, hate, distrust and all this could be dealt with, but the emotion here was not so easy to cast aside. Affection was something people did not have for Sherlock Holmes. They endured him, often marvelled at him, frequently despised him and even, on occasion, lusted after him but when given the choice they never cared for him. Yet here was a man, an intelligent and brave man, who did.

Sherlock had always assumed John stayed with him for the thrill of the chase, for the cases to solve and perhaps, and, although he regretted believing this now, for the reflected glory. Although now it occurred to him that his friend's companionship, maintained even in his absence, was due to something much simpler: John enjoyed Sherlock's company.

Yes he knew they were friends and that they regarded each other as such but, being inexperienced in the area, had not truly known what that meant. Why would anyone want to be anywhere near him if they gained no advantage from it? He was clever, obviously, but this bore no benefit to the people around him except they didn't suffer from ignorance for quite so long, but even in that respect John was different. He was smart himself but also made Sherlock quicker and brighter and better. He had often wondered why this was. Why?

This was one of the few times that Sherlock found he could not understand something. He could not understand John Watson.

* * *

What had possessed him to write that bloody letter? If he knew Sherlock at all he would have surely written something simple, detached, an Irene Adler-esque line like:

"If not dead text me.-JW"

He imagined the alternate reality where he'd done this: him and Sherlock laughing, pretending nothing had happened and keeping everything safe, locked deep inside. Maybe that was avoidance, maybe it wasn't a solution but at least then they wouldn't be stuck here, enveloped in unspoken things.

John was filled with the overwhelming urge to run away, to turn around and walk out of the flat but he couldn't bear to look at the man behind him for even a second. All of a sudden John was acutely aware of how close Sherlock had moved towards him. He could feel his lean figure looming behind him and hear his smooth, deep breaths. So there was no escaping after all. A shuddering sigh fell through his chest.

"We can't stand like this forever, Sherlock."

"I'm not leaving."

"Well then let me leave."

"No. I'm not leaving, and neither are you."

"Great. Fine. We'll just stand here then, shall we?"

"John, please."

He felt Sherlock's long fingers softly touch his back. Always hands between them. Keeping everything at arms length. Was he grasping for attention or for John? The palm slipped higher until it lay firmly on his shoulder and he felt that hand grip him tightly. He'd have to turn around eventually. As he did Sherlock smiled.

"Don't laugh at me. Don't pity me."

"No, I'm not. I'm not mocking you. As ever you see but you don't observe."

John just stared back. What was he going to do?

"Having seeing me read your letter you deduced, using previous experience as an aid, that I would find it humorous and perhaps even mildly offensive to my sociopathic nature, correct?"

John reluctantly nodded. Maybe Sherlock hated him now. John had let him down, not been quite as strong as he'd hoped. Sherlock must feel _oh so disappointed_. He couldn't stand that.

"Then I smiled at you and you took this to mean I found you, what, ridiculous?"

"Yes. Yes. Bang on, yet again, well done."

"No, John. No. You're wrong. I cannot blame you as I was not sure how to react myself at first. John...I...I'm not very good at expressing myself...like this. It's just, reading that letter I realised something I'd been denying, I don't why I hid from it, it ... well ... Anyway, what I am saying, quite terribly, is that I missed you too and you have to know that."

John could not understand how they'd each managed to misjudge each other so badly. John did not hate Sherlock and the reverse was also seemingly true. This revelation was too much for John to absorb. Sherlock Holmes, the genius, the sociopath, the detective who worked alone, the man with no heart, had missed him. It was an impossible thing. He met the eyes of the man staring at him and found them to be oddly wild, desperately seeking reassurance. Just like his flatmate, Sherlock was terrified to admit how he felt, and that he felt at all.

The two men stared at each other briefly and then John stepped towards his friend, he didn't know why he did it, he was just compelled to. Arms, long and slender wrapped comfortingly around John shoulders and he felt his own limbs reciprocate immediately, curving firmly around the taller man's trim waist. They settled in to their strange, new embrace with John's cheek lying firmly on Sherlock's shoulder. They should have been embarrassed, awkward, but they weren't. They just fit. There was a moment of utter, mutual contentment and then Sherlock spoke again.

"I have to say thank you, John."

"What for?"

"For being so infinitely stupid."

"Oh. Well, you're welcome, but really it was nothing."John muttered sarcastically up at his friend.

There was a faint chuckle above him as Sherlock pushed John from his hold and looked down at him, clinging still to his arms.

"I wanted to thank you for being idiotic enough to keep your faith in me even though all the evidence suggested I was a fraud. I think that was more than nothing."

"That wasn't stupidity, it was belief. I believe in you."

"I wish you didn't. No, that's not true. It would be easier if you didn't but still I'm glad you do. You must know that your faith, your friendship was the reason why Moriaty had power over me. If I had no one he couldn't touch me, my own mortality didn't phase me much, but with you in my life I had someone to stay around for. You could say that you were very nearly the death of me."

With words like this being spoken so freely John couldn't help but think of all the times over the last year where he'd contemplated whether it was worth carrying on. There were moments where he thought it probably wasn't. They were brief ideas, removed the instant John processed them properly, but they were there none the less.

"I could say the same for you."

Sherlock's eyes briefly flashed with sadness as John watched his words break through the drawbridge of his companion's mind and make an impact on something much deeper. Sherlock spoke solemnly and almost sternly, dropping his hands to his side.

"There are better things to die for."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that."

John stared into the fierce, clear eyes opposite and hoped he understood that if there was one thing in this world worth dying for it was Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock had had quite enough of all this serious talk; he wanted to get back to chatting with John like he did before. Teasing, being able to show off his quick witted mind. He loved it, revelled in it and especially longed for it right now, for John's fake, angry expression that he displayed when Sherlock stepped out of line.

He saw John staring at him and he felt the warmth rise through him, the tingles of chemicals dancing through his nerves, twinkling around his heart. His heart. What a funny thing. He must have one, after all.

A flickering smirk jumped across Sherlock's face. He had a plan to get John smiling again. He left a pause and then spoke.

"Now John, I have to address a pressing matter, something that has to be explained and confirmed to me."

He watched a look of confusion wash across his flatmate's face.

"It has come to my attention that earlier, whilst I was unaware and completely defenceless, that a very important and quite worrisome event may have happened, and I must now ask if this is the case."

He left a pause and watched his friend intently as he spoke again.

"John Watson, did you take my trousers off?"

John blushed furiously. Sherlock maintained his composure but his insides had that giddy feeling that accompanied his laughter.

"Furthermore, did we just partake in a "hug"?"

"Shut up..."

John had now averted his gaze. Sherlock loved this. It was harmless cruelty and, more importantly, perhaps a way to make things less complicated. To laugh his feelings off seemed the only way to cope.

"Oh, and lastly, just to clarify, have I just received my first real love letter?"

"Oh God..."

Sherlock caught John's eye and couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"Imagine the scandal if Lestrade had walked in on me hugging you in without my trousers on."

John couldn't stop a smile dancing on his features. Not only because that image was a truly wonderful one but that Sherlock had said, quite openly, that he had hugged him. It felt warm and soothing and like it should have always been that way. His wide eyes met his friend's and Sherlock seemed to nod in understanding, as if to say "_I could see that you needed to smile again_."

"I was looking out for you, the whole time. I want you to know that."

"I do."

"Good." Sherlock said more to himself than anything else. "Good."

"So what now then?"

"Even though I'm not overt to nakedness I think I may go put some clean trousers on. You should do what you want, but I suggest you make some tea."

John nodded. This was a perfect suggestion. He'd make them both teas. Tea for two again. Maybe lay out some cake, if he had some. Cake was a celebratory foodstuff and there had not been a lot to celebrate recently but there was today, so John would go out of his way to locate some, and Sherlock would eat it. He couldn't stand to look at those skeletal structures protruding from his friend a moment more.

Sherlock marched out of the bedroom, fully clothed, and cocked his eyebrow at him, as if to ask why the kettle wasn't on. John couldn't help but roll his eyes.

Everything was not suddenly OK. He knew that the last year would find moments to consume him but he had long since learnt how to live in the present, and he'd happily live in this one forever. He didn't know what would happen next, but that was the most exciting thing. With Sherlock around everything was possible and he understood more than anything else that no matter how short lived their partnership may be it was the right and only place for John.

Holmes and his Watson, or was it John and his Sherlock, he wasn't sure; the lines were certainly smudging, blurring the two of them together. Together, not for forever but indefinitely. John could live with that. He would live with it, with his friend, until he didn't live at all.

_**The End**_

* * *

_Note from the author:_ Thank you for reading this story. I hoped you enjoyed it. :)


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